


Adventures of an Artificer: Bethroot Cadash

by thievinghippo



Series: Bethroot Cadash [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 18,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories, prompt fics and drabbles involving Bethroot Cadash, rogue. Blackwall/Cadash will be the focus, but others will show up occasionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Root by Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> There are spoilers for the entire game throughout these stories. They are in no particular order. I'm writing as they come to me. Enjoy!

You’re curious about the name, aren’t you? Of course you are. If I had a galleon for every time someone asked me about my name I could buy my way into the noble caste in Orzammar and retire in style.  

Here’s the story. My mother got herself knocked up. No big deal, happens every day to casteless dwarves. Most women get rid of the baby or hope it’s the right sex so they can move up in rank.

My mum? She decides having a kid is the best thing to ever happen to her. So much so that she decides she’s not willing to risk having a baby in Orzammar and takes every copper she’s ever earned and smuggles herself out. The gold wasn’t enough, so she agreed to work for the Carta until her debts were paid off.

She’s always had a knack for healing, so they sent her to work with an old apostate who patched up any of the poor fighters who somehow managed to make it back to base alive. But let me come back to that.

So she’s in the Marches, and decides she wants to make things easy on her kid by giving her a human name. Maybe Mum thought it would make people like me more or I’d do better in trade, I don’t know. And she’s not around anymore for me to ask.

There was a trend when I was born, I guess, where women named their daughters after flowers and plants. So everywhere my mum looked there was a ‘Rose’ or a ‘Lily’ or a ‘Poppy.’ And my mum decides there and then that she wants to do the same with her brat.

Then one day, a kid comes into the warehouse. Little dwarven boy who the Carta used to run messages once in a while. No parents that anyone knows about. He’s miserable and my mum realizes he’s pretty damn sick.

The mage is nowhere to be found, so she does whatever she can think of to keep this kid alive until he’s back. And one of the main things she does is mix the herb Bethroot with milk and makes him drink the whole damn thing.

A couple of hours later, the mage came back to the warehouse and did his magic, and the boy was right as rain. But the mage told my mum that she saved his life, that if she hadn’t worked as hard as she did, he would have died.

Right chuffed my mum was, and two days later, she went into labor and had a daughter. A daughter who would have been branded casteless just like her mother if they hadn’t left Orzammar.

She told me once that the moment they put me in her arms, she knew I couldn’t have any other name. My namesake saved a life once. My mum hoped my name would inspire me to do the same.

For a while I was determined to prove her wrong, and I broke her heart, running with the Carta, not caring who got hurt as long as I got my gold. Took losing all I had worked for to realize I actually didn’t have anything to lose but instead everything to gain.

And now the Inquisition is giving me a chance to finally make my mum proud.

 

 


	2. The is the Hour of Lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "After great pain, a formal feeling comes - " by Emily Dickinson
> 
> This was originally posted as a one-shot, but I've decided that it's not an important enough moment to warrant, so it's being added to this. 
> 
> Set during Haven.

“You want me to what?” Blackwall asks, sure that he heard the Herald incorrectly.

He watches the Herald’s face as she stares down at the ground, her hands curled into fists. They stand in the training yard, far from the rest of the soldiers Cullen is running through drills. The Haven air is cool and crisp, but having worked on his endurance for the last hour, Blackwall is sweating. So he runs the back of his hand across his brow to wipe away the worst of it, trying to process what the Herald just asked.

She looks up, raising her chin as if to ward off any chance of rejection. “I want you to hit me,” she repeats. “Spar with me and I’ll lose on purpose.”

Blackwall looks away, and lets out a breath. That’s what he feared he heard the first time. “I can’t… I mean, I don’t want…” Crossing his arms over his chest, he asks, his voice gruff, “Maker why?”

Her mouth opens and closes with no sound. Blackwall cocks his head, trying to figure out exactly what might be wrong. Speechless is not something he would ever describe the Herald, but that's exactly her state.

Just when he thinks she's changed her mind, Cadash takes a breath and he sees the determination on her face. "Because humans scare me."

The words take the breath out of him and causes his gut to tangle up. Silly as the idea is, he thought they’d become friends a bit. Since he joined the Inquisition, he’s fought by her side more often than not, and back here at Haven, several times she joined him at the tavern on her own accord, where they talked over tactics and the future. Never their pasts.

To realize all this time she was afraid of him hurts more than he cares to admit. But if she feels true fear, his pain doesn’t matter. So he does his best to keep his voice level as he asks, “I frighten you?”

The Herald’s eyes widened. “No. No.” She reaches out and places her hand on his forearm, which is bare, thanks to the plain tunic he wore for his workout. She wears fingerless gloves and the brief contact startles him. He’s not used to being touched, not anymore, unless it’s a slap on the back or an armored hand helping someone up off the ground. To feel skin against skin…

“Blackwall, I trust you,” she says, truth ringing in every word. The words warm him almost as much as the way her fingers slide against his forearm as she removes her hand does. He looks down and she meets his gaze. “I’m not afraid of you.”

The tangle in his stomach is gone, replaced by an entirely different sort of ache, an impossible one. He forces himself to set it aside, to deal with it later and concentrate on the Herald. “Then what are you afraid of?” he asks, hating the tenderness he hears slip into his voice. She deserves so much more than a few soft words from the likes of him.

“Remember when you had to rest your knee at camp for a night in the Hinterlands and Cassandra took your place?”

Blackwall nods, thinking of that last night in the Hinterlands before they came back to Haven. His left knee acts up every so often thanks to a fight from his mercenary days, after Callier but before he met the Warden-Constable. He hated he needed to take a break, but after all these years, he understands and respects his body’s limits. If he hadn’t stopped for the night, he would have done serious damage and been no help to anyone.

“An outlaw slipped by Cassandra. The maul he had…” Cadash sighs, putting her hands behind her back as if bracing herself. “It was as big as me, Blackwall, and I froze. I couldn’t make myself move, because all I could think of was how much it was going to hurt.”

“What happened?” he asks, his voice quiet. 

“Solas managed to kill him before he got too close, but it doesn’t matter. I still froze,” the Herald says, shaking her head. He hears the frustration in her voice. “And I don’t think it was the first time. I never fought humans before I joined the Inquisition.”

“Never?” Blackwall asks.

She shakes her head. "Never. I've fought plenty of other dwarves, but never humans. Dwarven weapons… Well, there’s a pretty big difference getting stabbed with a dwarven dagger and hit with a human great sword.”

He grunts in agreement, having dealt with both those wounds before.

“And I’m not looking to get stabbed, just... I guess I hoped if we sparred and you hit me, I'll feel the pain and know I can survive it. Then maybe I won't freeze next time."

It's a sound strategy and one he understands. Orleasian soldiers go through much the same thing with magic. After he enlisted, he and other soldiers were hit with magic: fire, ice and lightning, so they could process each sensation and understand how they will react in battle. Fire causes him to panic slightly. Ice makes him nauseous and lightning just pisses him off. 

He picks up a nearby practice shield and slips his arm through the enarmes. He’s watched the Herald spar a few times and honestly, he’s not been impressed. Cadash might be good with a bow and quick enough to escape trouble, but if it came down to her life in a fight without weapons? She didn’t stand a chance. He’d just have to make sure she never found herself in that position.

Her face lights up once she realizes he’s acquiesced and Blackwall gives himself just a moment to reflect on how lovely her smile is. But then he steps back and evaluates her like he would any sparring partner. Her leathers are well worn. They’d protect her from magic and arrows a bit, but a shield?

The noise in the training yard has softened. The soldiers and recruits are behind him, but Blackwall doesn’t have to turn around to know most of their attention is on the Herald. She comes to the yard every day to practice with her bow, and spars so little it’s almost seen as an event when she does. He hopes the lads won’t be too disappointed when he takes her down.

He readies himself, shield in front - holding not hiding - and rests his weight on the balls of his feet. He’ll make this quick. One Shield Bash will be enough to knock her flat on her arse, hopefully providing the Herald with the tools she needs.

The Herald’s eyes look past him and he furrows his brow, asking an unspoken question. “We have an audience,” she says in a low voice.

He lets out a chuckle. “Want to give them a good show?”

She raises her arms high above her head and he tries to ignore the curve of her hips. “Pride is on the line now, Blackwall,” she says with a grin. “You understand.”

“Of course, Herald,” he says with a dip of his head.

She settles into a fighting stance and just by how she holds herself he knows that the moment he lunges, she’ll do that fancy back flip of hers. But while he’s not as quick as he used to be, he could still catch her off guard on the way down.

So he decides not to lunge and slaps the front of his shield with an open palm. The move causes his hand to sting, but is enough to startle the Herald and instead of a back flip, she dodges to the right.

She’s up on her feet almost at once and they start circling. As he waits for his chance, Cadash rolls her left shoulder. “You really need to get that shoulder looked at, my lady,” he says.

The words are enough to surprise her. “How did you-”

Blackwall takes the chance to lunge. The Herald reacts, doing her flip and landing easily. The soldiers behind them let out a cheer. “You have some admirers,” Blackwall says. He’s always enjoyed the give and take of a good spar and this is no exception.

Her breathing is slightly labored now as she sprints behind him. “Probably more of a curiosity to them," she says. "The dwarf who closes rifts. I could be part of a traveling circus."

There's something in her voice that rings true to him and Blackwall wonders if that's how she sees herself. The thought saddens him. He knows she doesn't believe she's the Herald, but he's starting to and she deserves more than self-doubt.

He feints to the right, taking advantage of her shoulder and she scurries out of the way. "I think that could be true for most of us," he says, thinking of her inner circle, a more eclectic group he'd ever met.

She says nothing in response and Blackwall notices how her eyes keep darting to his shield. There’s a real fear now in her eyes, a wild type of fear, one he’s far too familiar with. No point dragging this out any further; he’s in her head. And there he will stay until he ends this.

One simple step back and she provides him with his opportunity. Launching from his legs, he lowers his shield and aims for her stomach. With a quick thrust of his arm, he hits the Herald right in the midsection. It’s not as hard of a hit as he’d use with Cassandra, but more forceful than he’d use with a new recruit.

She lets out a gasp of surprise as she topples over. Letting go of the shield at once, Blackwall drops to his knees, next to the Herald, who isn’t moving. “My lady,” he says quietly, ignoring the cheers of the soldiers behind him. “My lady, are you alright?”

The Herald rolls onto her back, clutching her stomach. “That fucking hurt,” she says, a hint of a pout on her lips as she stares up at the sky.

Resting a forearm on his bended knee, he looks her over, making sure she’s no worse for wear. “But survivable?” he asks, holding out his hand.

A grimace crosses her face as she puts her hand in his. Her fingers are warm against his palm. Maker, her hands are small. Yet he’s seen how capable they are, whether closing rifts or fletching arrows.

“Survivable,” she says decisively with a nod of the head as he helps her up.

Their hands linger together for just a moment too long before she places both hands on her stomach. He can still feel the warmth from her fingertips ghosting over his skin as he looks up at her from his knees.

“Let’s just not make it a habit,” she says, laughing as she rubs her belly. “I see you get hit like that all the time. How do you handle it?”

He hoists himself up and lets out a laugh. “Heavy plate helps a great deal, Herald.”

“Point.”

There’s a whistle from the soldiers and Cadash turns and waves to them all. A cheer rings out and she bows from the waist before looking back at him. “Told you you had admirers,” Blackwall says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Her cheeks redden slightly before she waves the praise away. “Well, who wouldn’t want to see the so-called Herald get her ass kicked?”

“You did ask for it, if I recall,” Blackwall says, arching a brow.

“You just had to remind me,” she says, shaking her head. She starts to walk over to her bow, but stops and turns. “Thank you. I mean it.”

He dips his head, accepting her thanks. Every passing day affirms his decision to forgo his life as a recruiter and join the Inquisition. He couldn’t imagine not being a part of this, making things right, helping good people, with her.

“When we’re in a real fight, I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe,” he says suddenly.

Bending down, she picks up her quiver and hoists it on her back. She tilts her head and a sad smile crosses her lips as she looks up at him. “Even you can’t be everywhere at once, Blackwall,” she says.

“I can damn well try,” he says, the words soft, an oath. To himself or to her he cannot say. “I can damn well try.”

Cadash looks like she’s about to speak when a messenger runs up to them. “Herald, forgive me. Lady Montilyet requests your presence. Something about signatures.”

The Herald’s shoulders slump. “I forgot about those,” she says, sounding sheepish. “I best get back to the Chantry.” He watches as she picks up her bow and straps it to her back. She hesitates for just a moment before meeting his gaze again. “Will you be at the tavern tonight?”

He hadn’t planned on it. Earlier that day, Sister Leliana gave him a batch of reports to look through. He asked for them on the pretense of finding the Grey Wardens when in truth he wants to make sure there is nothing that might give him away. But those can wait for another night.

Instead of answering, he simply nods and his chest constricts when she grins in response. He watches as she jogs off with the messenger and wonders how much trouble he’s going to be in if he keeps walking this path.

But as she turns back towards him and gives one last wave, he realizes it doesn’t matter. His path, his resolve, is set.

She leads and he will follow. 


	3. Follow the Leader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the _In Hushed Whispers_ quest

She looks exactly like he remembers.

Her face, the Herald’s face, has haunted his dreams since the day he watched her die, three hundred and eighty-one days ago. The Herald is dead, of this is he sure, yet she stands in front of  _him_ , her blue eyes piercing his soul, and says it isn’t so.

He wants to believe. He wants it so badly he bites his tongue to keep himself from reaching out and feeling her hand under his. She is not for the likes of  _him_ , he remembers this now, the taste of copper on his lips.

But then it’s her hand that reaches out, fingers curled just so as she places her hand on his forearm. He twitches at her touch and jerks his arm away as she apologizes for not being there. Yet he would not have her here in this world, this world of red lyrium and lies, where nothing is real, not even time.

He is a champion, a protector, and Maker help him, he would protect her from this.

She keeps speaking and her voice is a balm, easing its way into his bones. His eyes close as he listens to what she is offering. The last year could be erased. Everything he has been forced to do in The Elder One’s name as he hoped for escape, some way to make things right… And now she tells him he can go back, and this past year will never have existed. It doesn’t seem possible, yet he hears the truth in her voice.

He chooses to believe. He trusts the Herald. Trusts  _her_.

She will help him chisel away the worst parts of himself until only his true self remains.

_You are who you choose to follow._

He is  _Blackwall_. Not Rainier.

And he is hers. She leads and he follows, off to battle the very essence of time itself.

#

He looks nothing like she remembers.

The man in front of her is broken. Certainly not the same one she called oddly charming only a few days ago. Red lyrium radiates from his skin and clouds his blue-grey eyes and for the first time since she fell out of the Fade she feels rage. Oh she had moments of anger before, but nothing like the coil of smoke slithering through her belly, demanding she make The Elder One pay.

Then find a safe place for her friend to rest.

But there is no time for rest as they find him armor to wear and a sword to wield. She is the one who discovers a shield and holds it up for him as if in offering. As he puts his forearm through the enarmes, she doesn’t imagine how his shoulders straighten, like he’s been given purpose again at last.

They fight through Redcliffe. Alexius is killed. The Elder one arrives.

Time. There’s never enough in the end. Her heart constricts, realizing what they must do, what  _he_  must do. She meets his steady gaze and with one look, they promise each other the world. One breath and they’ve placed their lives in each other’s hands.

And then he dies.

She wants to cry out as the demons pour through, bringing proof of his death. But as the magic cackles around her and she hears the familiar song of arrows being loosed, she finds her resolve and doesn’t stray.

_There_ _’s a reason people have been following our Herald._

Less than a week has passed since he spoke those words to the Avvar. She had simply closed a passing rift, nothing special, she thought. But now another rift opens and she feels the power tingling in the palm of her hand, running down to the tips of her fingers.

Blackwall thinks she’s someone worthy to follow.

And now she will show the world why.


	4. Offer Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is _offer me_ , a drabble about a character giving another a gift.

She sits in the ambassador’s office, trying to concentrate on the paperwork in front of her. Instead her mind keeps wandering, remembering the evening prior, her certainty Blackwall would arrive in her quarters and her utter sense of relief when he finally did.

How could Josephine and Leliana expect her signature almost four dozen times over when all she wants to dwell on, is even with their difference in size, how perfectly her hips cradled his?

They didn’t speak much this morning. Blackwall left early, concerned about her reputation if too many people saw him leaving her quarters. She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, she cares for him and will happily share that with the world, but worries he wants to be a secret instead.

A messenger enters as Bethroot stares at the parchment as she signs her name once again.

“Josephine, do you have a secret admirer?” Leliana says, her voice full of curiosity.

Bethroot looks up at that, and sees the messenger is carrying a small bouquet of flowers. But instead of Josephine, the messenger walks over to her and bows low. He hands her the flowers and says, “From the Warden, your Worship.”

The flowers smell of spring and possibilities and as she buries her nose in them, she hears Josephine’s delighted clap of her hands but misses the shadow that falls on Leliana’s face.

#

She hasn’t let an arrow loose in three days.

Bethroot skips down the stairs of the keep, feeling like a bird experiencing flight for the first time. She has two full hours of freedom before she needs to meet Cullen to discuss the troops, and she knows exactly what to do with them.

The training yard is packed today, full of both new recruits and veterans alike. The Grey Wardens staying at Skyhold are holding a clinic of sorts. Somewhere among them is Blackwall. She’s been surprised he hasn’t been more friendly towards the Grey Wardens, but supposes there’s a reason he calls himself a loner. 

Stopping outside the small room where she and her companions keep their gear at Skyhold, Bethroot stretches her arms high over her head, trying to dislodge the feeling of disuse. But then she steps inside and looks towards her things.

Her eyes narrow, seeing some sort of mark around the top of her favorite quiver. It’s a simple quiver, leather over a wooden frame, with a wooden lip to keep the shape. She picks it up and realizes that it’s not a mark at all, but words carved around the edge.

_Atrast nal tunsha_

“May you always find your way in the dark,” Bethroot whispers, thinking how she taught Blackwall the dwarven phase a week ago, explaining how her mother would say that to her each time Bethroot left on Carta business.

She hugs the quiver to her close. “I have, Mam. I finally have.”

#

Blackwall turns away, still in chains, and Bethroot tries to get her heart to stop stammering.

Too many people are staring, watching the spectacle she’s created. If she could have only stayed in her damn chair, they could have had their first reconciliation in private.

But her eyes are on his back as a guard steps forward, ready to remove the cuffs. Within moments, it’s done and Blackwall rubs his wrists, saying something to the guard she can’t hear over the crowd.

She steps off the platform, not wanting to be elevated above anyone any longer. He walks up to her then, his face still open and raw. “I meant it,” he says, leaning forward and kissing her brow. “Forever in your hands.”

And he slips her the key that gave him his freedom.


	5. Scars

She should be sleeping.

Beside her, Blackwall is on his back, breathing slowly and evenly, as only those deep in slumber can. Bethroot is propped up on her side, her fingers lightly running over his chest.

It's only their second night together and her first chance to study him closely. Last night, between exhaustion from traveling back from the Storm Coast and nerves, hoping and wondering if Blackwall would say anything, she fell asleep almost immediately after their passions were spent.

He promised answers from their journey, but the trip only left her with more questions. The badge was key; she saw him take it out and stare at it more than once on the wagon ride back to Skyhold. But she could ponder the mystery later. Right now, she just wanted to look.

Even after sharing plenty of campsites and watching him spar and train over the past six months, Bethroot had never seen him without a shirt until last night. Her hand drifts lower, sliding over his belly, and curling her fingers through his soft chest hair. He’s not as lean as some of the other humans she's seen shirtless; a few of her soldiers looked for any excuse not to wear a shirt. But he's plenty strong underneath it all, and that's all that matters.

A patchwork of scars decorate the right side of his torso, shoulder and arm included. She wonders the story behind them. She wonders how soon she’ll have the right to ask and find out.

Blackwall jerks his head suddenly and makes a small noise which comes from the back of his throat. He shakes his head, eyes closed tight, and Bethroot holds her breath as she continues to lightly stroke his stomach.

He stills not long after and Bethroot lets out her breath, sure he’s awake. She says nothing, in case she’s wrong. He deserves his rest.

"That feels nice," Blackwall mutters, his eyes still closed.

Bethroot jerks her hand away, but he catches it and puts it back on his stomach. "I thought you were sleeping," she says, keeping her voice soft, not wanting to break the magic of her quarters, with the crackling fire and the autumn wind breezing through the open balcony doors, as she starts up the caress again.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly as he opens his eyes. There’s a raspiness in his voice that makes her curl up to him closer. She nods and he raises a hand, dragging a knuckle across her cheek. “You need your rest, my lady. Don’t waste your time staring at me.”

“You were moving,” Bethroot says, hearing the shyness in her voice. Why is this so hard to ask about? “Were… were you dreaming?”

A look she doesn’t recognize crosses his face. After six months of friendship, she thought she had a handle on most of his moods. Not all of them, though. He’s such a private man and offers so little about himself, not even his given name.

“I was.”

She rests her chin on his chest and the words come out before she can stop herself. “What’s it like?” she asks, more eagerly than she'd hope. “Dreaming?”

"Thought you dreamt once," Blackwall says, running his hand through her hair, "with Solas."

"True," she concedes, remembering the strangeness of being in Haven yet not being there. Even after all of Dagna’s questions about the experience, she couldn’t quite describe it. Perhaps dwarves just truly weren’t meant to dream. "But I didn't realize it was a dream until I woke up."

A silence settles over them and Bethroot resigns herself to yet another question unanswered. There is so much she wants to learn about him, yet so much he won’t say. She worries she'll start to fill in the empty spaces with ideas of her own. If she does, will he still be the man she cares for now or just a construct in her head?

He told her once, "it's what you do and how you do it that’s important." But what happens if that's not enough? Everyone has a foundation of which their lives are built. The past shapes them all, like chisel against stone, even if one refuses to look back.

She knows from their previous conversations, she figures he's either a soldier turned criminal or criminal turned soldier. Deciding which tale she prefers isn’t easy, so she’ll wait until he lets something slip, handing her a clue which she weaves into the tapestry of everything she’s learned.

Bethroot is an archer. Patience is key; she doesn’t need to know everything at once as long as her target is getting closer to her mark. Someday she’ll have her answers and for now, that’s enough.

“Not all dreams are good, you know,” he says, darkness clouding his voice.

“You had a nightmare?” she asks.

He nods and brings her hand up to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. It’s so tempting to ask for more details, more something, more anything, just _more_. But she doesn’t want to appear greedy.

“I’d meet you there in the Fade if I could,” she says, an invitation if he’d like to talk more, as she leans forward and rests her hand on his shoulder, tracing the scars. Her lips brush his; she meant it to be more of a peck, for comfort, but Blackwall has different ideas.

He kisses her hard and deep, waking up every nerve in her body. But even as she lets herself be pushed onto her back, she's pleased with his sudden insistence not to speak. It tells her a story without words. Blackwall has handed her another thread for her tapestry.

He has more than just the scars on his body. And now she’s most curious about the ones she cannot see.


	6. Kissing

Bethroot slips under his arm and stands between Blackwall and his workbench. He looks down at her with an amused smile on his face, one which causes her stomach to jumble up a bit. Part of her is still in a daze, still can’t quite believe she has this right, to walk up to him and casually take his hand or ask for a kiss. Granted, it’s only been a few days, but to finally know how his lips feel against hers after she wanted to know for so long, pleases her more than she can say.

“My lady?” he asks, putting down his wood cutting tools.

She glances at the workbench and Blackwall takes the hint, clearing it a bit, before grabbing her by the hips and lifting her up. Now sitting on the workbench, they can see eye to eye, which is much more comfortable for them both.

“I want to practice kissing,” she announces, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Tomorrow they leave for Crestwood, to meet Hawke’s Warden friend. If it’s who she thinks it is… Well, Bethroot will try not to be too giddy, but to meet the lover of the Hero of Ferelden…

This is their last chance for a bit of kissing until they reach camp tomorrow; they’ve decided not to share a bed tonight, both wanting a good night’s sleep before traveling. Not that Bethroot hasn’t slept well the past two nights, lying next to Blackwall. They’ve simply not slept as much as they should.

Blackwall takes a step closer so their bodies are flush. “I wasn’t aware kissing was something that needed practicing,” he says, bringing his hand to her cheek.

Bethroot leans into his palm and gives him a smile. Tilting her head, she takes her thumbs and lifts Blackwall’s carefully parted moustache, fully exposing his upper lip. “I need to figure out how to kiss more lip and less moustache,” she says before leaning forward and pecking him on the lips.

“You’ve never kissed a man with a proper moustache before?” Blackwall asks, raising his brow. She can hear a teasing lilt and is grateful for it.

“I’m a dwarf, of course I have,” she says with a laugh. “But none like yours. Orlesian style isn’t very popular among dwarves.”

“How’d you know it’s Orlesian?”

“Isn’t it?” Bethroot asks. “Leliana made a comment about it once.”

Blackwall nods slowly and Bethroot goes back to studying the situation. “See,” she says slowly, bringing her lips just a whisper away from his, “when we kiss like this…” Bethroot captures his lower lip between hers and sucks gently as Blackwall puts his hands on her ass, bringing her even closer to him. His beard feels soft against her chin while his moustache brushes her cheeks.

She ends the kiss but barely moves. “When we kiss like that, I’m not kissing your moustache.” Bethroot keeps her voice low, and is pleased to see that she has his complete and utter attention. “But when we kiss like this…

Raising her head just a fraction, she offers her lower lip to Blackwall, who immediately presses it between his own two lips. But the soft scrape of his teeth against her lower lip is offset by his moustache hair tickling her upper lip.

Bethroot breaks off the kiss, with the intention of figuring out how to sneak her lips underneath his moustache and against his lips. But before she has the chance, Blackwall’s kissing her neck. She gives herself just a moment to revel in being held, the way she can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he maps out her neck with his lips, the way his palms rub small circles into her ass and the way his beard feels soft and smooth against her skin.

She runs her fingers through his hair and feels him shiver against her as she drags them along his scalp. “We’re supposed to be practicing kissing,” Bethroot says, her voice a quiet puff of air against his ear.

His chuckle runs through his chest, and Bethroot is caught off guard as he kisses her lips again. “Getting ahead of myself, I see,” he says, his eyes full of warmth.

Leaning forward, she kisses him, but angles her head just so, so her lips go underneath his moustache instead of over it. Then she’s able to apply as much or little pressure as she wants. She smiles against his mouth, pleased to have discovered the secret.

“You seem pleased,” he whispers, their lips still slightly brushing.

“I am,” she says, her fingers ghosting along the tender flesh under his chin where his beard ended. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

“That’s it, then?” Blackwall says, one palm sliding up her back. “A few kisses and you think you’ve mastered the art?” Bethroot starts to protest but he holds up a finger to her lips. “How many times have you loosed an arrow to hone your skills? Surely this deserves just as much work and attention.”

Bethroot lets out a laugh as she leans forward, pressing their lips together. He’s right, of course. Kissing deserved just as much practice.

And as he parts her lips with his tongue, she decides kissing him might even deserve _more._


	7. Rising Tide

“I’ve been thinking, my lady,” Blackwall says, his voice low. Perhaps she imagines it, but Bethroot thinks she hears a slight emphasis on the word _my_ which thrills her to no end. “Your given name, it’s a bit of a handful.”

“Thank my mother for that,” Bethroot says, putting her hand on top of his, which is resting on her stomach. They’re a day out of Skyhold on the way to Crestwood and sharing a tent for the first time tonight. It’s their first real acknowledgment to the rest of the Inquisition that they’re in a relationship and Bethroot hopes the inevitable whispers and rumors aren’t too awful to deal with. But they’ll manage, she’s sure of it.

She’s laying on her back with Blackwall on his side next to her, letting her use his arm as a pillow. With her free hand, she pulls up his gambeson; he placed it on top of her blanket when she shivered from the cold not too long ago, to use for extra warmth. It smells like him, like sweat and wood and oil, all comforting scents.

His lips press against her temple and she squeezes his hand. “Do you think,” he says before kissing her cheek this time, “I could give you a pet name? For when we’re alone?”

Hope radiates throughout her body and Bethroot needs to bite her lip from grinning. Maybe she’ll finally get the answer to the one question she’s more curious about than any other: his given name. Blackwall can keep his secrets; she knows he can’t tell her everything, for the Warden’s protection and quite possibly his own, depending on his past. She’s been around enough criminals to understand the whole story can never be revealed completely. But this one simple bit of knowledge is what she craves more than anything. And if he wants to call her by a pet name what would be more reasonable than to call him by his given one?

Somehow her voice sounds calm as she answers. “What were you thinking? 

“Well, Beth is too obvious and Root’s not really what I’m looking for,” Blackwall says, laughter in his voice. But then he grows quiet. She looks up and meets his eye. There’s a tenderness in them that makes her heart flutter, as silly as an expression that is, it’s true. Somehow, when he looks at her like that, it’s impossible to believe that he hasn’t always been there, a part of her life, when they’ve only known each other for seven months.

“Can’t be obvious, now, can we?” Bethroot says with a smile.

“No, I suppose we can’t,” he says. “I thought perhaps Bethy would work.”

He moves his hand from her belly up to her face. But Bethroot catches his hand and brings it to her lips. _Bethy_ , she thinks to herself. She’s never really had a nickname before. Most people she worked with before the Inquisition called her by her surname, Cadash. And ever since the Conclave explosion, she’s been Herald, or Inquisitor or more and more lately Your Worship which doesn’t sit right with her at all.

This name could help ground her, help keep her from getting lost, or worse forgetting herself and just who she is. Already she feels unrecognizable from the _dwarva_ who hid below deck as the boat crossed the Waking Sea on the way to the Conclave. Bethroot wonders how long it will be before she has nothing left in common with that woman except her face.

“I like it,” she says slowly, interlacing his fingers with her own, taking comfort in the strength she feels in his palm, yet at the same time, vividly remembering just how gentle he can be with those same hands of his.

“I’m glad,” he says as he leans down and kisses her. Bethroot closes her eyes, enjoying the lack of urgency in the kiss, knowing it’s far too quiet in camp to share anything more than a few kisses.

When the kiss ends, Bethroot moves to her side, so her back is flush against Blackwall’s chest. It’s now or never, she decides, so she takes a breath, all the way to her toes. “You know,” she say, hoping he hears the hint of playfulness in her voice. “Your name is a bit of a handful as well.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth she regrets them. She feels him tense up behind her and at once she knows she’ll receive no response from him tonight and she wonders how much longer she’ll have to wait for the answer to such a simple question. Her own fault, she knows. The warmth she felt at the thought of him calling her something other than _my lady_ made her take her eye off the target.

“Blackwall’s what I prefer to be called,” he says and Bethroot hears the strain in his voice and she wonders what could have possibly have occurred to make him want to disassociate with his given name so completely. And then she wonders just how long she’ll have to wait before he trusts her enough to offer his name. And it will have to be him, for she won’t ask again. She does have some sodding pride, after all.

She squeezes his hand, trying to show him there are no hard feelings, when in fact she’s trying to keep them at bay. He trusts her with his life, she knows this and she hopes with his heart as well, or he would have never shown up in her quarters to begin with. A name seems almost an afterthought with those two things already balancing in her hands. At least that’s what she tells herself. “I understand,” she says and is pleased she hears no bitterness in her tone.

But the light has gone out of the evening somewhat. Thankfully, it’s late, and when she relaxes against him, she feels him relax as well, placing his chin on the top of her head. “Let’s get some sleep,” she tells him.

She feels him tighten his arm around her waist and tries to simply enjoy his presence. “Good night, Bethy,” he says.

Even if she didn’t learn his given name, the pet name still causes her to smile. But when Bethroot says, “Good night, Blackwall,” his surname lingers on her tongue and she finds it hard to ignore the gulf that’s suddenly risen up between them.

 _Patience,_ she tells herself, closing her eyes.

Every tide eventually falls.


	8. Pulse

“You look far too pleased with yourself,” Bethroot says with a breathless laugh, holding out her hand.

Blackwall leans forward, taking her hand in his and brushing her knuckles with his lips, one by one, before running his hands up her thighs, feeling the soft hair on her legs and even softer skin under his palms. She’s probably right, he most likely does look pleased, but why shouldn’t he? They tried a new position tonight, at his suggestion, and now that they’re done, she lays naked and sweaty before him and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’s seen.

It’s a simple idea. Bethroot on her back, ass flush with the edge of the mattress and Blackwall on his knees at the side of the bed. His hands could roam as he pushed into her and best of all, he could see her face when she comes. Any position that let him see her face, he likes. Sadly, most of the positions comfortable for them both, thanks to their size difference, didn’t allow that.

She pulls herself up and Blackwall places both of his hands on her ass, bringing her close, feeling her breasts against his chest. The temptation is too strong and he kisses her gently, as she runs her hands up and down his sides, over the bit of belly Blackwall has given up hope of ever losing and works to make sure doesn’t get any bigger instead. And then he realizes his knee is decidedly uncomfortable.

“I need to stand up,” he says after breaking off their kiss.

“Knee bothering you?” Bethroot asks, scooting up to the head of the bed and pulling down the covers.

“A bit,” Blackwall answers, walking over to the side table with the water basin. They’re in his quarters off the training yard, which she seems to like more than her own sometimes. When he asked her about it once, Bethroot simply said, “Stairs.” Blackwall understood. There are a ridiculous amount of stairs to get up to her quarters. He splashes a bit of water on his face before pouring a glass of water for them to share. “I’ll try to remember to use a pillow next time.”

When he turns back towards the bed, Bethroot is on her side, already under the covers. Blackwall had thought to walk around a little more, but the bed and his lady are far too tempting a sight, so he places the glass on the nightstand and joins Bethroot in bed, laying on his back with an arm behind his head. Feels good to be on the mattress again, he decides, and puts his free arm around Bethroot’s shoulders.

“Please do,” she says with a hint of a laugh. “I really liked that.”

“I’m glad,” Blackwall says, smiling to himself, knowing what he’s about to say next will cause a reaction. “I’ll have to thank Alistair.”

And he’s right. “Wait, what?” Bethroot asks, propping herself up on her elbow. “You spoke to Alistair, Warden Alistair, about us? You never speak to _anyone_ about our relationship.”

She speaks mostly the truth, though he’s discussed things with Sera a few times. Blackwall knows most of Skyhold speaks about them behind their backs, when they aren’t starting rumors about her sleeping with half of Thedas, and he feels no need to give those people more ammunition. “I’ll tell you the story if you’d like.”

Bethroot nods and throws her arm over him, resting her chin on his chest. “Yes, please,” she says.

Letting his fingers run up and down her back, Blackwall starts his tale. “It was a few nights ago. I was sitting at the bar in the tavern waiting for Sera. Alistair joined me,” Blackwall says, not adding how uncomfortable he was when Alistair sat next to him. He hadn’t been avoiding the Grey Warden, per say, but he certainly wasn’t going out of his way to speak to the man. “We started talking, and it’s not like we can discuss Grey Warden business in the middle of Herald’s Rest so we had to find something else to talk about.”

“And you talked about sex?” Bethroot asks, raising her brow.

“Not at first,” Blackwall admits. “I needed a few rounds of ale before that happened. But we realized we had something in common.” Bethroot tilts her head expectantly and Blackwall must admit he’s having a bit of fun, drawing the story out. “The women in both of our lives are dwarven rogues.”

“I hadn’t even thought about that,” Bethroot says. “You two do have a lot in common.”

Blackwall forces the wave of guilt he always feels whenever someone says something like that out of his head and instead concentrates on Bethroot. “A bit,” Blackwall says. “But all you have to do is say ‘Hero of Ferelden’ and Alistair could probably talk all night about her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so smitten.” He stops speaking for a moment and pushes her hair behind her ear. “After we had enough ale, he offered up his ten years experience sleeping with a dwarven rogue. 

“And you’re not a man to throw away a resource,” Bethroot say, pressing her lips against his chest. There’s a slight smirk on her face when she looks up at him again. “So what did he say?”

“Told me about this position,” Blackwall says, “and the easiest way in a tent, but we already had figured that one out.” He wets his lips, feeling his stomach start to tie in knots over what he’s about to do. “And he told me about one other thing.”

They leave for Adamant Fortress in two days. The journey will be longer than others, since they’ll be traveling with an entire company of soldiers instead of by wagon. It’s taken longer than they hoped, arranging for Inquisition troops to march through Orlais. But with permission finally granted, the journey could begin. And Blackwall is worried. He’s fought in campaigns like the one ahead, planned a few sieges himself, but Cullen never has led an army into battle, not like the one they’ll be facing. Thankfully, the commander is humble enough to ask for advice and he and Blackwall have spent most of their evenings lately together in Cullen’s office with his lieutenants, planning the attack.

They’re as ready as they can be.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not scared for the woman next to him. The moment she steps in the fortress every Grey Warden under Erimond’s control will want her dead. Blackwall will do everything he can to make sure they both make it out of there alive, but he’s not able to prepare for every possibility.

There’s a stirring in his heart and words buried there he’s not quite ready to say out loud, so he keeps them close for now. Then when Alistair told him of a way dwarves show each other they care, Blackwall decided if he wasn’t ready to tell her and least he could show her his feelings. But Alistair’s dwarf is from Orzammar and Bethroot’s from the surface and part of him worries she might not have any idea what the gesture will mean. Nerves threaten his decision, but before Blackwall can change his mind, he commits, like he did when he joined the Inquisition and when Bethroot spoke the words ‘I’m not letting you go,’ their first night together.  

He’s in deep, he knows that. And if this simple move will show her just how much he cares, then he’ll do it. Bethroot looks at him, her face soft, with only a few candles on the nightstand to illuminate her features. His eyes don’t leave hers as he places two fingers just below her jaw line, finding her pulse. But then Blackwall closes his eyes, focusing only on the feeling of Bethroot’s beating heart beneath his fingertips. Alistair told him nothing calms him faster than feeling Brosca’s pulse, the gesture of affection she taught him, which he passed onto Blackwall. Something about equating it with the pulse of lyrium in the Deep Roads. Alistair wasn’t very specific and Blackwall didn’t ask.

And Maker, if he isn’t right.

Her heart rate is quick and the steady rhythm threatens to lull him off to sleep. As much as the idea of slumber appeals to Blackwall at the moment, he’s more interested in Bethroot’s reaction, so he opens his eyes.

She kisses him then, hard on the lips and when she pulls back, Bethroot’s eyes are bright. As he goes to find her pulse again, she raises herself up and moves forward before laying her head down on his chest, her ear right over his own heart. Blackwall’s sure his heart rate is all of the place, from sex and nerves and the way she’s rubbing small circles into his palm with her thumb. “Alistair told you about this?” Bethroot says and he hears such a contentment in her voice he can’t help but smile as he brings his fingers to her jaw.

“He did,” Blackwall says, closing his eye.

“I’m glad,” she says, her voice no more than a whisper.

He can think of nothing more to say, not when he’s warm and sated with his lady listening to his heart beat while he feels her pulse beneath his fingertips. And within minutes, he hears Bethroot’s heavy breathing, letting him know she’s asleep and he joins her not long after.

They can worry about Adamant tomorrow. 


	9. A Lady's Favor

She tries to shake out the cramp that’s beginning to form in her hand. Ignoring the pain, Bethroot dips her quill into the ink and starts yet another thank you letter to a noble who contributed gold or weapons or men to the Inquisition’s cause.

At least she’s at her own desk in her own room. The rest of her bedroom furniture might be human sized, but the desk was built with _dwarva_ in mind. It’s a relief to sit in a chair where her feet actually touch the floor and with a back curved for dwarven spines.

The door opens in the middle of a sentence, and Bethroot puts down her quill. A moment later, she sees Blackwall walking up the stairs. “Maker, what a day,” he says as he crosses the room towards her. There’s sweat in his beard and at his temples and while he looks exhausted, Bethroot notices a spring in his step and hears contentment in his voice.

“Fun training the recruits, I take it?” she says with a laugh, knowing training young soldiers is one of his favorite things to do. It’s a marvel to watch, the way Blackwall balances discipline and motivation and how the recruits respond to him, wanting to do their best for the Warden.

“I’ll turn them into soldiers somehow,” he says.

Bethroot starts to stand to give him a kiss, but he beats her to it, getting down on one knee. She hasn’t seen him in more than a day, thanks to a private dinner she had with some Ferelden nobles that ran much later than she expected the night before.

The kiss is soft and slow and tempting enough that Bethroot wants to ignore the letters she needs to write. But she pulls away, needing to finish them as quickly as she can.

“Work to do?” Blackwall asks, his gloved fingers sliding across her jaw. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Blackwall says, standing up. “I’ll see if I can’t finish up that duck for Cole.”

She nods, pleased he has something to do while she works. The more seriously Thedas takes in Inquisition, the more work Bethroot needs to complete, it seems. Well, the sooner she finishes, the sooner she can relax for the evening.

“Bethy, what’s this?”

Bethroot looks up and sees Blackwall standing in front of the sofa, holding her embroidery hoop. “Oh sod it,” she mutters, standing up and walking over to him. She takes the hoop from his hands. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Blackwall says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You hate sewing.”

“You’re right, I do,” Bethroot says with her chin high. “That’s why it’s nothing.”

“Bethy.”

With a sigh, Bethroot shows him what she tried to hide. Nestled between the wooden hoops is a piece of white linen. "It's just practice," she says.

Blackwall takes the hoop from her hands. "Practice for what?" he asks.

"When we came back from Crestwood, you asked for a token, a favor of some sort, didn’t you?” Bethroot says, not quite believing the shyness she hears in her own voice. "I asked Josephine for help. She showed me some stitches and I’m practicing.”

He sits down on the sofa, holding the hoop and turning it over his in hands. “This is for me, then?” he asks. There’s a softness to his voice that she’s not heard before and causes her heart to flutter.

“Not this one, no,” Bethroot says, putting her arm around Blackwall’s shoulder and pulling herself up onto his lap. “Once I’m better, I’ll make you a real handkerchief.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” he asks.

The seriousness in his voice combined with the furrow of his brow is enough to make her laugh, taking the hoop from his hands. “Look at it, it’s awful.” She points to one corner stained with a few drops of blood. “I’m can’t thread a needle if my life depends on it.”

“Blood is a fact of life,” Blackwall says. “It’s something we deal with every battle.”

Conceding the point with a nod, she gestures to another corner, one with the letters BC stitched in plain font. “My initials turned out reasonably well, but you should see the fancy script Josephine can do. I’d like to learn it.” She tilts her head to the side and stared down at the initials. “Eventually.”

“I’m a simple man with simple tastes,” he tells her and Bethroot can’t help but laugh as he squeezes her ass. “I don’t need a fancy script.”

“I wanted to embroider the Inquisition symbol in this corner,” she says, showing him the strange marking. “But it turns out the Inquisition symbol is incredibly complicated. You’d think as Inquisitor, it’d be in my power to change the symbol to something less… fussy.”

“You didn’t,” Blackwall says with a chuckle.

“I might have made a few discreet inquiries, but I was shot down,” Bethroot says with a sigh. “So I changed it to a bow and quiver. Not that you can really tell that this is.”

“But-”

“And look at the border,” she says. “It was supposed to be marigolds, since you’ve sent me a few bouquets with those and they were so lovely.” She sighs, remembering just how frustrated she became trying to make each flower perfect. “But I gave up halfway through the first side. Arrows are much easier to stitch.”

Blackwall takes the hoop gently from her grip before removing the handkerchief, staring at it intently. Before she could react, he kissed her hard on the lip, then cupping her cheek with his palm, still holding the handkerchief. The linen and silk thread felt cool against her skin. “My lady, I would be honored to accept this favor from you.”

She blinks, sure she hasn’t heard him correctly. “You really want this one?” she asks, putting her hand on top of his. “Even though it’s awful?”

“When I asked for a token, Bethy, I hoped for a ribbon of your colors or a lock of hair,” he said. He puts a hand on her hip and just the slightest pressure. Bethroot takes the hint at once and turns so she straddles him on the couch.

“That’s what I originally thought to do,” she admits. “But then I spoke to Josephine who said an appropriate favor would be a handkerchief.”

She watches as he runs his thumb across the symbol in the corner. “You hate sewing and yet you made this for me.”

“This one is supposed to be practice-”

“But it’s perfect, don’t you see?” Blackwall asks. “If you made a hundred of these they wouldn’t be as perfect as this one in my hands. I could ask for no finer token.” His face turns serious as Bethroot rests the palms of her hands on either side of his neck. “I can only hope I’m worthy of this gift some day.”

Her heart clenches at his words. How he could possibly think himself not worthy is a mystery she _will_ solve one day. Men don’t come much better than him. “You already are,” she says softly, not wanting to argue the point.

Blackwall’s eyes close and Bethroot takes the opportunity to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Thank you,” he says, hugging her tight. “I will cherish this.”

She knows she should probably make him another, one that isn’t such a mess, but perhaps he’s right. Bethroot did put a great deal of time and energy in that specific handkerchief and there certainly won’t ever be another one like it in all of Thedas.

Instead of making a fuss, Bethroot kisses him on the nose. “You’re welcome,” she says.

As much as she would like to stay in Blackwall’s arms, there is work that needs to get done. Josephine has runners scheduled to leave tomorrow and the letters need to be written. So Bethroot reluctantly slides off his lap and walks back to her desk.

Once seated, she glances over at Blackwall, who is tucking the handkerchief into the top of his left glove, leaving only a hint of white linen visible. All he’ll need to do is look down at the crook of his arm and he’ll see her favor.

Bethroot picks up her quill and starts to write, thinking that every minute of aggravation and annoyance she felt while sewing was absolutely worth it. And while she can find herself frustrated by how little information he gives her about his past, she has no doubt he is absolutely worth it as well. 


	10. Brontide

He’s not seen her often like this.

There’s defeat in the curve of her shoulders, a tiredness she rarely lets anyone see, not even him. A few heartbeats pass before Blackwall wonders why she’s sitting alone in the darkened equipment room, legs straddling a bench, arms hanging loosely at her side. Her bow and quiver are hanging on the weapons rack, lined up with the other weapons.

Without saying anything, Blackwall moves to his own weapons stand and puts away his sword and shield, then taking off his chestpiece. He and Cassandra sparred earlier today and he’s hurting. A tub of ice sounds exactly what he needs, but not until he solves the mystery that’s in front of him.

She makes no move as he sits behind her on the bench, placing his hands on her thighs.

“My neck hurts,” Bethroot says lamely, not looking back at him, just staring at the bench in front of her.

Well, a hurt neck he can handle, Blackwall decides, as he takes off his gloves before carefully placing the tips of his fingers on either side of her neck. He starts rubbing, small smooth circles, feeling the tension she’s carrying and waits for her to speak. When a few minutes pass and still she’s silent, Blackwall starts to worry.

One thing he’s realized about his lady in the few weeks they’ve been together is she likes to talk. She’ll tell him about the most minute details of her day and he’s never minded, enjoying the sound of her voice, grateful that he can do something, anything, for her, even if it’s just the simple act of listening. It’s when she doesn’t speak, he feels a bit of a knot in his stomach, wondering about the things she wants to say but chooses not to.

“My lady?” he asks, moving his palms down to her shoulders, kneading the flesh with his fingertips. The words are simply an invitation to talk, telling her in his own clumsy way he wants to listen.

She makes a sudden hiss as Blackwall digs into a tender spot on her shoulder. Leaning forward, he kisses that spot, feels the cool leather of her armor against his lips. Her body changes slightly then, and even though he can’t see it, he can feel the smile tugging at her mouth. “I spoke to three qunari today, for more than two hours,” Bethroot says. “Standing up.”

“You looked up at them for two hours?” Blackwall asks. “Maker’s balls, that would hurt my neck, let alone yours.”

Reaching behind her, Bethroot takes his hands and scoots back so her back is flush against his chest. He wraps his arms around her front and marvels how small she seems in his arms. And then, since she seems to be silent again, rests his chin on the top of her head.

Outside the training room, he could hear soldiers running drills and sparring, but inside, the only sounds are the two of them breathing, until Bethroot says in a voice so small he almost doesn’t hear, “I miss everyone being my height.”

He’s not asked much about her past, not wanting to give an invitation to be asked about his own, but he’s heard enough about the Carta to know she grew up surrounded by other dwarves. In Markham, he lived among humans; the elves kept to their alienage and the surface dwarves stayed more in the city proper where his family lived near the outskirts. He tries to picture himself suddenly transported to Seheron and wonders how quickly he would miss other humans.

“I miss furniture that fits me,” she says. There’s a weariness in her voice and Blackwall wishes he had some magic words to make it disappear. But he doesn’t, so he listens. “I hate that I need a step stool to get into my own bed.”

“You could probably ask for a dwarf size bed to be made,” Blackwall says.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to sleep in any bed where you don’t fit.”

“Would you have me be a dwarf, if you could, Bethy?” he asks quietly. It’s a silly question, but something compels him to ask.

“No,” she says, so quickly and sounding so sure, he knows she means it. “You wouldn’t be you, if you were a dwarf.” Bethroot leans back against him, her eyes closed. Her voice softens as she adds, “I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

His heart crumbles into pieces at her words.

He can’t even begin to count the things he would change in his past, to try to make himself into a man worthy of holding Bethroot in his arms. But instead he worries and waits until the day comes when he’s finally told one too many lies or when she finally put everything together and realizes the puzzle pieces simply don’t fit. It’s absolutely exhausting sometimes, dodging and parrying with words instead of swords.

But what choice does he have? The only alternative is to be without her and Blackwall failed miserably when he tried. So he works to keep everything straight and hope they get as much time together as possible before the hammer falls.

“Well,” she says, lacing her fingers through his. There’s a hint of teasing in her voice. “Maybe I’d have you snore less.”

He chuckles and some of the tension disappears, leaving him feeling light as he kisses the top of Bethroot’s head. “You sleep through anything,” he says. “Even my snoring.”

“True.” She takes a breath and Blackwall can feel the muscles in her stomach constrict and the way her back presses into his chest. And as she starts to talk about the events of her day, he closes his eyes and the sounds of her voice lulls him into a sort of respite.

The consequences of his actions will still be there tomorrow. But for now, he could simply be a man, listening to his lady talk.


	11. Blackwall and Iron Bull

Bull walks into the tavern, ready to relax in the corner he’s claimed as his. As he heads to his chair, he catalogs the number of people drinking and a number of concealed daggers.

He notices Blackwall sitting at the bar, talking to Sera. He’s heard the rumors about Blackwall and the Inquisitor now that they’re back from Crestwood, it’s the perfect opportunity to see if they’re true.

Blackwall’s shoulders are more relaxed than Bull has seen before. He’s not carrying nearly the same amount of tension in his core. This is clearly a man who’s had a fair amount of sex after quite the dry spell.

Good for him.

Now to have some fun.

He sits on the other side of Blackwall and slaps him on the back. “So, what’s this I hear about your and the Inquisitor?”

Sera laughs while Blackwall glares at him. “It’s really none of your business, is it?”

“Of course it is,” Bull says, motioning to the bartender for a drink. “It affects the team, affects how everyone is going to work together. That makes it our business.”

“Good luck,” Sera says. “Broody beard here refuses to talk about it.”

“Because it’s private,” Blackwall says, taking a swig of ale.

Bull lets out a laugh. “If you wanted things to be private, you wouldn’t have gone up to her room in the first place,” Bull says as the bartender gives him his drink. “And you wouldn’t have shared a tent when you’re in the field.”

“So everyone knows about that now?” Blackwall asks, shaking his head. “Great. Just bloody great.”

Taking a drink, Bull decides to press a little further. It would be a good story at least, later on. “But dwarves, mmm,” Bull says, thinking about some of his own past experiences. “Everything is so compact down there. Easy to reach the best places, too.”

By the way Blackwall’s cheeks redden, Bull thinks he agrees.

“I’ve never been with a dwarf,” Sera says. “Easy to reach, eh? Sounds pretty nice.”

“Oh it is,” Bull says, crooking his index finger in a ‘come hither’ motion as an example. Sera bursts out laughing while Blackwall looks like he wants to disappear.

“We are not talking about this,” Blackwall says. Bull takes a drink and tries not to laugh at how uncomfortable he sounds. “Last time we talked, Bull, we talked about metals. I think you’re right. Dawnstone is not quite a practical choice, but I could see how it could work.”

Bull decides to let him off the hook. Blackwall will be in enough trouble one of these days, whenever the truth comes out, seeing that Bull is convinced the man is no Grey Warden.

So they talk metal and gear and Bull makes no mention later when the Inquisitor walks up to the bar and Blackwall’s face softens more than he’s ever seen before. Let them have their happiness for now.

Too bad it won’t last forever.


	12. Baisemain - A Kiss on the Hand

“Blackwall!” **  
**

Bethroot’s heart stops, watching him take the blow by the giant, knocking him completely to the ground. She wants to run to him, make sure he’s still breathing, but if the giant isn’t defeated, she’ll never have the chance.

So she ignores the stench of the area, of dead animals and rotting flesh, even as it makes her eyes water, and concentrates on her next shot. Dust swirls up from the desert of the Western Approach, but she thinks only of the enemy ahead. But what good is an arrow against a giant? But pushing those thoughts away, Bethroot gets to one knee and takes a shot.

And another.

And another.

And still Blackwall has yet to get up off of the ground.

Thankfully, magic finishes what arrows cannot and before long, the giant is dead. Bethroot wastes no time, running over to Blackwall as quick as she can. All it takes is to see his chest rise once, reminding her to breathe as well.

Bethroot gets on her knees next to him then, grabbing his hand as he starts to sit up. “I’ve taken worse,” Blackwall mutters, before placing a hand on the ground to brace himself.

“You’re really alright?” Bethroot asks. Every instinct screams at her to kiss him, to feel his lips against her own, to have their breath mingle together. But he’s so private a man, he’d not thank her for her kiss, not in front of Vivenne and Dorian.

But she needs to do something, remind herself that he’s right here in front of her, alive. So she takes his gloved hand in hers and brings it to her lips. Blackwall’s eyes are slightly unfocused, but Bethroot can see a hint of a smile beneath his moustache and beard, a sure sign he’s taken a hit to the head.

A chuckle escapes her lips as she helps Blackwall up off of the ground. Best they find camp for the night.


	13. I Just Want To Watch You

She sits in front of the fire, the night air cool against her and skin, and watches Blackwall pace. He says he’s simply doing a perimeter check, wanting to make sure no wild animals are out about in the Emerald Graves, but Bethroot knows better. This is a man who needs an orgasm. **  
**

Most nights, Bethroot would be happy to drag him into their tent. But she took a blow to the head earlier today, and even with Solas’ healing, the edges around her vision are still slightly blurry. It’s because of the injury he’s so worked up, blaming himself for not being there more quickly. Sometimes she needs to remind him he simply can’t be everywhere at once.

“I’m going to bed,” Bethroot says quietly, hoping Blackwall will join her, so maybe he can get some much needed rest.

He’s by her side in an instant, hand out, helping her up off the ground. “I’ll get you settled, my lady,” he says, holding onto her shoulder.

They’re quiet as they walk to the tent, Bethroot only stumbling once. Once inside, with the flaps of the tent tied tightly behind them, Bethroot watches as Blackwall gets onto his knees, relaxing against him as he brings her into his arms. “You scared me today, Bethy.”

“Scared myself,” Bethroot admits, thinking of the pain she felt after the blow from the Red Templar Knight.

She settles into her bedroll, while Blackwall takes off his gloves and gambeson, before laying on top of his. There’s a nervous energy to him, to the way he’s tapping his foot, or the way he can’t seem to get comfortable. It’s obvious Bethroot won’t get any sleep until he gets off.

“Why don’t you jerk off?” Bethroot asks. The question make him still. “You’ll feel better.”

“You want me to wank?”

Bethroot turns to her side, slowly, and props up on her elbow. “I want to sleep, but I’m in no condition to help you come. Therefore…”

Blackwall lets out a chuckle as he lays on his back, unlacing his trousers. “Therefore I should give myself a tug. Fine, you win.”

“I do win,” Bethroot says, licking her lips as he spits into his hand and starts to stroke himself. “I get to watch.”


	14. Reunion Kiss

Maker, he’s drunk.

Been some time since Blackwall’s had this much ale, but Sera’s just ended her fling with the Requisition Officer, so the only way to deal with it is with a pint.

Or in his case, eight.

“Maybe you have the right idea, Beardy,” Sera says, putting her feet up on the table in her alcove.

“Oh no, I’m never right,” Blackwall says, taking another sip of ale he doesn’t need. “Don’t ever take my advice. Ever.”

Sera starts giggling, and while he’s pleased to amused her, he means what he said. He’s not the one to give advice, not trusting his own judgment.

“I mean about things,” Sera says, waving her hands in a way that makes no sense at all. “Quizzie is squishy. I think I like squishy.”

Blackwall coughs, and tries to avoid Sera’s eyes, because while squishy is not the word he’d use to describe Bethroot, she’s soft, and that’s even better. The last thing he should think about is Bethroot’s softness, not when he’s only had the company of his hand in bed for the last three weeks.

His blasted knee acted up, just in time for her to leave for Emprise du Lion. She had no time to waste, so Blackwall was left behind, and Cassandra took his place. But his lady should be back tomorrow, and then he’ll be able to welcome her home properly.

“You should see your face,” Sera says, laughter in every word as she stretches. “So red right now. But I’m serious. Maybe I should find a dwarf of my own.”

“Fall for the person, Sera, not their race,” Blackwall says. He thinks to have another sip of ale, but puts it down instead. He’s had enough tonight.

“Easy for you to say, you already have a squishy,” Sera mutters.

There’s a knock on the door to Sera’s alcove, and Blackwall sighs. No doubt Varric or Bull want to drag them down to the main floor of the tavern. Blackwall would much rather just stay in the alcove, which has become one of his favorite places in Skyhold.

“We’re talking important Inquisition business, yeah?” Sera asks quietly. “We can’t join anyone.”

Blackwall nods in agreement. Maybe if they simply don’t answer the door, whoever is there will go away.

“Sera? Is Blackwall with you?”

He sits up at once, almost dropping his ale. That’s Bethroot’s voice. She’s not supposed to be back until tomorrow. His heart starts hammering because she’s here and he’s drunk.

“There goes that,” Sera says. Then louder, adds, “Come on in, Quizzie.”

Bethroot slips in the room, closing the door behind her and Blackwall drinks her in. She’s an absolute mess from traveling and Maker, he can smell her from here. They must not have found a pond or river to bathe in on the way back.

But she’s here.

There’s a smile on Bethroot’s face as their eyes meet. “I just wanted to let you know I’m back,” she says. “I’m going to do clean up now.”

“Wait,” Blackwall says, standing up not quite steadily.

He only needs to take two steps before he’s next to her. He thought to lean down for a kiss, but his balance isn’t what it should be, thanks to the bloody ale, and Blackwall takes a knee.

“Fun night?” Bethroot asks with a smirk. She looks at Sera. “How drunk is he?”

“Drunk!” Sera says in a sing-song voice. “Oh so drunk.”

Only because it’s Sera in the room, Sera who knows more about his relationship with Bethroot than anyone, is he comfortable to wrap his arms around his lady and kiss her. It’s a soft kiss, because he doesn’t think he can handle anything more than that at the moment.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

“Me, too,” she says, backing out of his arms. “But I really need a bath and then I’m going right to bed. Join me later if you can make the stairs.” Bethroot puts her hand on his cheek, and he missed her touch so damn much. “Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nods at Sera and a moment later she’s gone. So Blackwall stands up and goes to sit back next to Sera.

“So you and stairs?” Sera asks.

Blackwall sighs. As much as he would love to share a bed with Bethroot tonight, there’s no way he’ll be able to make it up those stairs unless he sobers up quickly. And he’s not a young man any longer.

“Not in a million years. I’ll see her tomorrow.” He picks up his ale and takes a sip. Another ale or two and he’ll be ready to pass out. Tomorrow will be here before he knows it.


	15. Blackwall/Bethroot AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for 'what if' Wednesday. What if Bethroot didn't get to Val Royeaux in time, and Blackwall confessed to his crimes and was executed before she got there?

The roar coming from the gallows is almost deafening.

“Must be quite the show,” Dorian says as they rush towards the scene.

Thanks to her height, it’s almost impossible for Bethroot to see the gallows themselves. She’ll never be able to find Blackwall in this crowd, not with this many people.

She skirts towards the edge, near the market stalls selling candy and treats. Figures Val Royeaux would treat the execution of a man like a day at the fair.  

_Where was he?_

Just when Bethroot thinks to stand up on a bench to get a better look, Dorian grabs her arm and plants himself firmly between her and the gallows. “It’s best you don’t look,” he says.

There’s an urgency to his voice Bethroot doesn’t like. She wretches her arm from his grasp. Using her smaller size against him, Bethroot slips around Dorian and jumps up on the nearest bench.

And that’s when she sees Blackwall hanging from the gallows.

She doesn’t remember what happens after that.

#

All Bethroot keeps is the handkerchief she made for him.

She sends specific instructions to Skyhold that every remnant of Thom Rainier should disappear before her return. Later, she discovers that his armor and weapons were sent to Griffon Wing Keep and his clothes sent to refugees in the Crossroads. She never finds out what happened to the rocking horse.

The trip to the Storm Coast is a silent one. Bethroot thinks back to all the times they spent together and wondered how she could be so naive? He flat out refused to tell her his full name. That should have been her first hint.

The night before the Inquisition teams up with the qunari, they camp near the spot Rainier brought her to all those months ago. While her companions sleep, Bethroot marches up there alone, ignoring the warnings from the Inquisition guards.

She takes out the Grey Warden badge, Blackwall’s badge, and runs her fingers over the curved metal. Did he ever love her at all? It doesn’t seem possible that he did, not when he could so easily leave her like he did.

After wiping the tears off her cheeks, Bethroot throws the badge out into the sea.

The next day, when she’s forced to make a decision, she thinks about betrayal. Twice, now, in her life she’s been betrayed by a man she loves. Lantos and Thom Rainier.

The Chargers know what’s at stake, and she will not betray the qunari. “I’m sorry, Bull,” she says softly after making the call.

She’s not surprised when Bull won’t look her in the eye. 

#

Time passes. Corypheus is defeated.

A party is thrown and Bethroot ends the night standing on her balcony, alone, waiting for a sunrise she hoped to share one day with Blackwall.

#

Her companions leave Skyhold quickly. Bethroot closes herself off from the rest of them, and they feel it.

Sera doesn’t even stay for the party. Who knows where Solas ended up? Varric goes back to Kirkwall. Dorian heads to Tevinter.

Cole, Vivienne, and Cassandra stay behind, along with Bull.

Bethroot tells herself she’s too busy to be lonely.

#

The discovery that Leliana knew Thom Rainier wasn’t Blackwall is the last straw. Without hesitation, she pulls her support from the Spymaster’s campaign to be Divine. The Chantry becomes more divided than ever, making Bethroot more grateful than ever she clings to the Stone.

Cassandra is elected Divine and leaves for Val Royeaux at once. Bethroot and the Seeker never got along all that well and there is an air of relief at their last meeting.

#

There is still work to be done. Bethroot’s not out in the field often, but when she is, it’s always the same team: Bull, Cole, and Vivienne.

It’s in the Emerald Graves when she first notices Bull staring at her. Heat pools between her legs and she’s suddenly _very_ aware it’s been a year and a half since someone has touched her.

Somehow, she finds the will not to go into his tent that night.

Her resolve falters the next.

Bull picks her up like she weighs nothing (just like _he_ did) and lets out a laugh. “I knew you’d eventually find your way here, Boss.”

#

They don’t fuck in Skyhold. Only the road. It’s a silent agreement that suits them both.

#

The Exalted Council is called.

A few friends show up. Varric gives her a seat in the Merchant’s Guild. Dorian brings word from Tevinter. On her one free afternoon, as Bethroot walks around the Courtyard, she gets a pie to the face, but Sera is never found.

#

Her arm is in agony, but Bethroot soldiers on, determined to stop the qunari plot. Bull, Varric, and Dorian join her for the last stand. Between bursts of pain, Bethroot wonders if she’s going to die. Everyone else seems to think so.

She wonders if it will hurt as much as seeing Blackwall swinging from the gallows.

Somehow, she thinks it won’t.

#

When Bull betrays her for the qun, Bethroot wants to be angry, but she’s so damn _tired._

She stands over his body and shakes her head, wondering if he would have done the same if he were Tal-Vasoth.

But there’s no time to _think_ , Viddasala must be stopped.

#

Saarath kills Varric almost at once.

Without Bull, without any sort of warrior to grab the Saarebas’ attention, he keeps his attention only on Bethroot. The anchor is out of control and Vivienne can’t even get close enough to cast a barrier.

When the Saarebas summons another set of demons, before they even had a chance to kill the first, Bethroot makes a decisions.

She orders Vivienne to run.

The last thing Bethroot ever does is reach into the pocket of her leather coat and curl her fingers around the handkerchief.

Then everything goes black.

#

Something has gone wrong. The Inquisitor should have come through the mirror by now.

Solas walks through the stone qunari, trying not to be disappointed that the Inquisitor might not see his display. He steps through the eluvian and is met by a Saarebas, easily dealt with.

And then he sees her.

With a twinge of regret, Solas looks down at the bruised and battered body of the Inquisitor and wonders if perhaps it’s not better this way.

Now there is no one to oppose him. Or worse. Make him change his mind.


	16. Verbana

“Do you want to go in alone?” Thom asks quietly.

Bethroot studies the empty garden. No one is lingering, wondering what the Inquisitor is doing, standing outside the small room with the altar. “I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” she admits. “The Stone… you don’t ask favors of the Stone.”

Thom looks like he wants to say something, but instead takes her hand. Bethroot lets him lead her into the tiny chapel, closing the door carefully behind them. Together, hand in hand, they walk up to the statue of Andraste.

It’s dark, the room, and the smell of dust on the candles and the furniture remind her of the few times she’s been in Dust Town, down in Orzammar. Funny, she should think about her brethren when she’s starting to revere a new God.

Thom gets down on one knee, so they’re the same height. “Asking for favors from Andraste isn’t too difficult,” he says. “Any fool can do that. But praying, truly _praying_ , is something altogether different. I can’t teach you that.”

“But you pray.” It’s not a question. Ever since they started sharing a bed again after he came back from Orlais, she’s heard him whispering in the morning.

He nods, and puts his gloved hand on her cheek. “I’ve a lot to be thankful for.”

“What do you pray for?” Bethroot asks. The question is personal, almost too personal, yet she can’t help but be curious.

Thom breathes in deeply and slowly lets it out. “The souls of those I’ve wrongly killed. I pray for you, that Andraste will keep Her Herald safe. That the Inquisitor will be able to defeat Corypheus…”

He trails off and Bethroot can tell there’s more, but he deserves his privacy. Just when she’s ready to turn towards the statue, try to pray on her own, Thom slides his arm around her waist, resting his brow against hers. “And I pray I’ll be able to give you a child when the time is right.”

Bethroot blinks, and feels her heart soar at the thought. They’ve discussed children only sparingly, but enough she’s decided the day Corypheus is defeated is the last day she puts those awful dried herbs in her tea each morning. She knows the chance of them actually having a child of their own is slim, but oh how she _hopes._ “That’s quite a list,” Bethroot says, squeezing his hands with her own.

“It’s works for me,” Thom says, standing up. “Go on. Give it a go. You just need to stand in front of Andraste. You don’t have to speak out loud.”

Nodding, Bethroot slips her hands from his and stands in front of the statue, shoulders back, hands clasped behind her. She feels ridiculous, yet the candlelight dancing on the walls compounds with the gentle sound of Thom’s breathing and she remembers why she’s here.

Because she _believes._

How can she not? After all she’s seen and has happened to her? She should be dead, more than once, and instead she lives in a castle with a man she loves more than she thought possible.

So Bethroot closes her eyes and _prays._


	17. Jealous Kiss

Monogamy’s more difficult than Blackwall thought it would be.

On paper, it should be easy. Bethroot’s practically half his age, with a sex drive he vaguely remembers from being twenty-five himself a lifetime ago. He’s had more sex in the last month than he’s had in his all of his years on the run, and yet Blackwall still finds himself with a wandering eye.

He cares for Bethroot, Maker knows, he cares for her. Blackwall would never dream of actually acting on any of his dirty thoughts. He’d simply rather he not have them at all. But he’d been a shallow bastard for almost thirty years when it came to women, and one month of a relationship didn’t seem enough to want to change that.

So when he stands in the doorway of the stables, arms crossed over his chest, he can’t help but feel guilty when he notices the elven woman speaking to Farris. She’s clearly trying to bargain her way to a better price, and her tits won’t stop bouncing thanks to the way she keeps talking with her hands.

And even though he knows he shouldn’t, Blackwall stares and begins to wonder what they’d feel like under his palms.

“Enjoying the view?”

Bethroot’s voice practically makes him jump out of his skin. He hadn’t seen her approach, thanks to his eyes being occupied elsewhere. Her face does not look one bit pleased and if he had to guess, she saw _exactly_ where his attention had been.

“Thought you had meetings this afternoon,” Blackwall says gruffly, pushing the elven woman out of his head and focusing on the dwarf in front of him.

“Ended early,” Bethroot says, taking a step closer to him. “So I came by for a kiss.”

Before he even has the chance to think of a response, Bethroot grabs the front of his gambeson and drags him down for a kiss, one that practically knocks the breath out of him. When they part, they’re both breathing heavy, and thanks to the rise and fall of her chest, now all Blackwall can think of are _her_ tits and how it’s been almost three days since they’ve had a chance to be alone.

“Just how early did your meeting end?” Blackwall asks, placing his hands on Bethroot’s shoulders.

A smirk dances across her lips and he knows he’s forgiven. She walks towards the back of the stables, hips swaying, before saying over her shoulder, “Early enough to risk a trip to the loft.”

Blackwall doesn’t need to be told twice and thanks to his longer stride, beats her to the stairs.


	18. Kiss on the Ear

There’s something to be said about a pint with a friend.

Blackwall sits at the bar, listening to Sera’s stories. Some day, Maker help him, he’ll get her to finish that damn ‘circumstances’ story of hers. Some bloody day. But just hearing her talk and laugh helps rid his mind of Adamant and the all the horrors they found there.

“Another?” Cabot asks from behind the bar.

“Risk it?” Sera asks, hand on her chin. “Or do you need to get back to _your lady_?”

With a nod, Blackwall says, “She’s at some fancy dinner tonight in the Main Hall. All pomp and nonsense. Much rather be here.”

“She even invite you?” Sera asks as Cabot puts the fresh pints in front of them.

Blackwall takes a long sip of ale. “She did,” he says, trying not to think of the disappointment that crossed Bethroot’s face when he said he rather not go. The Inquisition is hosting a bunch of Orlesian nobles tonight, including one he worked for as a sellsword. No, needs to be far away from the Main Hall tonight.

“You said no? I’d want to go just for the laugh,” Sera says.

“You know me,” Blackwall says with a chuckle. “I’d use the wrong fork at supper and cause an incident. Better off not going.”

A lie, of course. Blackwall very much knows the complexity of dinnerware at a fancy party. What’s one more lie in the face of so many?

“Good choice,” Sera says. “Who needs those wankers, all thinking they’re better than anyone else?”

“Not me, that’s for certain,” Blackwall says.

“Hope I’m not included in that.”

Blackwall’s cheeks go red, hearing his lady’s voice. He turns, and Bethroot is standing next to him, wearing her one fancy dress. The dark green dress has a straight skirt which goes down to the floor, and a bodice that make her breasts look bloody _fantastic_.

“Thought you were off entertaining borings,” Sera says.

She nods, looking up at Blackwall with a smile. He relaxes at that smile, knowing she’s not upset at his words. “I just spent thirty minutes listening to nobles discussing how good peasants have it, with all that outdoor exercise when they farm.” Bethroot sighs and takes a step closer. “Decided I needed a moment to clear my head.”

Bethroot places her hand on his forearm, and he watches as she stands on her tiptoes and leans forward. He thinks she means to give him a kiss on the cheek, but she somehow manages to kiss his ear instead.

When he turns to look down at her, she’s scowling at the bar stool he sits on. Understanding, Blackwall leans down, and gives her a quick kiss on the lips, hoping no one notices.

“You couldn’t reach my cheek, could you?” Blackwall says with a grin.

She scrunches up her nose and taps one of the legs of the stool with her foot. “I couldn’t reach your cheek.” Bethroot looks at Cabot and says, “We’re dwarves. Why do we even _have_ stools?”

And with that, Bethroot gives his hand a squeeze and heads out the door.


	19. things said under the stars

Bethroot’s the only one in the tent when she wakes up. She tries to push herself up, but used two hands out of habit, and with her left arm no longer there, she falls to the side.

“Damnit,” she whispers into the pillow as she pounds the ground with her fist. Everyone praises how well she’s been adjusting at only having one arm, but they’re not the ones to see her tip over in the middle of the night.

She’s still dressed in her underarmor, so Bethroot takes the time to stand up properly, willing her body to adjust to it’s new reality as quickly as it can. Once standing, she pushes aside the flaps of the tent and looks for Thom.

He’s sitting in the grass, just off the edge of the shore. Tomorrow they’ll be in Denerim for a meeting with Queen Anora, to discuss the disbanding of the Inquisition in detail.

“Thom?” she asks, wanting to give plenty of notice, knowing he doesn’t like to be snuck up on, even by her.

“You should be sleeping, Bethy,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes off the sea.

“Could say the same for you,” she says, walking up to him. She puts her hand on his shoulder and sits down on his crossed legs. In no time at all, his arms are around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Just thinking about the future,” Thom says. “What our place will be without the Inquisition.”

Truth be told, the future scares her. There’s so much to be done before the Inquisition hands over Skyhold to the Chantry. Servants need to be found new positions, the mages living in Skyhold found new homes. It will be months before she’ll officially step down as Inquisitor. But what happens after?

“If you have any ideas, let me know,” Bethroot says, raising her stump of an arm. “My career as a fighter is over.”

Thom lets out a low chuckle. “Even with two good arms, you had no future as a fighter, Bethy, we both know that.”

“Let a girl dream,” Bethroot says, leaning back into his embrace. “Is there anything you’d like to do? We could travel.”

“Been thinking about that a lot, actually,” Thom says. “I’d like to go on helping people somehow.”

Bethroot looks up at the sky, trying to find a constellation or two in the night sky. It’s a beautiful night, peaceful, with the stars overhead and the sound of the waves at the shore. And she’s in the arms of the man she loves. She tries to remember there’s so much to be grateful for, even when missing a limb, but it’s hard sometimes.

“We could do that,” she says finally. “Start up a charity-”

“Nothing as formal as that,” Thom says quickly. “The paperwork alone would bore me to tears.”

“Then we’ll help people other ways,” Bethroot says. She bit her lip. Gold is something they’ve never discussed and it feels slightly out of place. But she’s been in business for far too long to ignore the reality of money. “We won’t have much money, you know. I have a bit of a steady income from some property I own. But it’s not much.”

“I lived on the road for four years when I took Blackwall’s name,” Thom says. “I know how to be poor. Doesn’t scare me any longer. What about you?”

Bethroot thinks back to her childhood, to begging on the street with her mother. It’s something she never wants to do again if she can help it. As long as she can keep up with her investments, she supposes there’s enough to live on for the two of them. Though if they ever add a third, things might have to change.

“Been awhile, but I suppose I could manage,” Bethroot says slowly. “It will be a bit before we get the chance, though.”

“More time for me to find the rest of my men while you finish up,” Thom says. “Then we can start our new life.”

“Then we can start our new life,” Bethroot repeats, squeezing Thom’s hand. Their future seemingly set, she’s content to sit back and watch the waves.


	20. Things you said when you were Scared

“I’m not leaving you.”

Bethroot looks up at Thom, at his stubborn, beautiful face, and tries to hold back her tears. She’s in so much bloody pain, her hand is on _fire_ , a mess of sinew, bone, and pulp.

They’ve reached a dead end, having killed the Saarebas. The only way forward is through the Eluvian the Viddasala walked through. There are answers, Bethroot is sure of it, through that mirror.

“Get back,” she says, feeling the Fade creeping through her fingers. Another meltdown is about to happen, she’s sure of it. But Thom gets down on one knee and holds her close.

“Thom, it’s bad enough I’m going to die, please, I can’t take you with me,” Bethroot says through gritted teeth, into the crook of Thom’s neck. Maker, it hurts, _it hurts_.

She doesn’t want to die, not like this. Not when there are so many bloody things she still wants out of life. Dying in battle would be one thing. Dying because of a spell gone wrong just doesn’t seem fucking _fair_.

“I can’t leave you,” he says, and Bethroot tries to take comfort from his fingers resting at the pulse in her neck. But there simply is no comfort from the agony running up and down her left arm.

“The moment the mark discharges, I’m running through that mirror,” Bethroot says. She holds back a cry of pain. “You can be right behind me.”

Thom nods and stands. But he’s too slow. Bethroot tries to turn to shield him from the blast, but she sees him tossed back by the energy bursting from her hand.

She finds herself on her knees, her hand curled protectively by her belly, trying to recover from the discharge. Using her bow, she stands, and looks back at Thom. Cassandra is helping him up and Bethroot knows this is her chance.

So she whispers, “I love you,” and runs.


	21. Kiss on the Back

Bethroot curls up in on herself, willing the day to be over. It’s been a stone awful day, endless marching from one camp to another, with ridiculous fights in-between.

And to top it off, during one of those ridiculous fights, she shot Thom. He lunged when she didn’t expect it, and the arrow meant for a Freeman’s neck hit him right in the shoulder.

They needed to finish cleaning out these barricades and then hopefully never come back to the Exalted Plains ever again.

Thom acted like it was no big deal, of course, making her feel even worse. So instead of staying by the fire after supper, Bethroot came straight to her tent, She’s been alone for a while, now, because why would Thom want to sleep next to someone _who shot him?_

She hears the flaps of the tent open and closes her eyes. Maybe he’ll think she’s asleep.

“Bethy?” he asks.

It’s not in her nature to deceive him, so she turns so she’s lying on her back. “Are you really alright?”

His brow furrows and then he chuckles. “And that’s exactly why I wear chaine under my gambeson,” Thom says. “I barely even felt it.”

The vice around her chest eases a bit; he wouldn’t lie to her about something like that, she’s sure of it. Even so, Bethroot still feels a tad guilty. She tries so hard to be a better fighter, and some days she just falls on her face.

She’ll just have to make it up to him. “Prove it,” Bethroot says, sitting up.

“And just how will I do that?” Thom asks as he sits down on the ground.

“Take off your shirt,” she says, raising her chin, making it practically an order. Thanks to the heat of the Exalted Plains, he’s only wearing a shirt and his trousers, his gambeson tucked away neatly in the corner.

He raises his brow at her voice and smirks. “As my lady commands.”

Bethroot scoots behind him as he brings his shirt up over his head. His back is a marvel of muscle and scars, and just the sight is enough to cause a swell of desire. She checks his right shoulder, where the arrow hit, and sees nothing out of the ordinary.

“See, Bethy, what did I tell you, I barely felt it.”

She leans forward, pressing her lips against his shoulder, the hair on his back ticking her skin. Resting on her knees, Bethroot reaches around his front, sliding her hand down his trousers before curling her fingers into his pubic hair. 

At his moan, she whispers, “Do you barely feel this?”

“I’ll show you what I feel, you minx,” Thom says, his voice hoarse.

Bethroot’s not surprised when she’s on her back a few seconds later. She’ll be happy to make a _thorough_ apology.


	22. A Playful Kiss

“How did you grow up in the Carta and not learn hand to hand fighting?” Blackwall asks as he unbuckles the toggles on his gambeson.

Bethroot shrugs. “When I was young, I did cons. Then I negotiated. Not much need for hand to hand there.”

“You’re telling me no one tried to beat you up on a con?” he asks, throwing his gambeson to the side. Bethroot’s only wearing a tight-fitting shirt and her trousers, and Blackwall’s gaze lingers over the curve of her breasts.

“Would you beat up an innocent young female dwarf?” Bethroot says, clasping her hands together in front of her and batting her eyelashes.

He bursts out laughing and tries to picture his lady ten years ago, back when she and her mother went from city to city in the Free Marches, running cons. She must have done well enough for the leader of the Carta to trust her to go to Orzammar.

“Point taken, my lady,” Blackwall says. “Now, we did come here for a practice session.”

It’s one of the many empty rooms in Skyhold, cleared out to give people a chance to spar and train. With dinner just served, the room is empty, giving them a bit of privacy.

“We did,” Bethroot agrees.

He’s pleased she wants to work on her combat skills, because Maker, she’s awful. Granted, thanks to her work with a bow, it’s not a skill she needs often, but Blackwall can’t be everywhere at once, and if someone slips by his shield and her arrows, Bethroot needs to be able to protect herself.

“Do you remember what we worked on last time?” Blackwall asks, lowering himself into a fighting stance.

She nods and takes a breath, clearly waiting for him to charge. “Stay low,” she says, as if she’s trying to psych herself up.

“Exactly,” Blackwall says.

He feigns a move to the right, and Bethroot jumps up instead of staying low, causing her tits to bounce so beautifully Blackwall can’t help but stare. Even though he’s distracted, he charges again and Bethroot crouches at once, sticking out her leg, causing him to trip over his feet.

The next thing he knows, Blackwall’s flat on his back, with Bethroot proudly pinning his shoulders. It’s a horrendous grip, one he could escape with hardly any effort, but as she straddles his chest, he can’t think of any good reason to move.

“I win,” Bethroot whispers, leaning down and kissing him lightly.

Blackwall wraps his arms around her, bringing her in close. “Let’s call it a tie.”


	23. Duel

“Inquisitor!”

Bethroot gripped the edge of the low wall where she sat, talking to Thom. She never liked being called out in public, especially in Val Royeaux. Instead of the lazy afternoon they planned, strolling along the theatre district, she now had to deal with whoever wanted her attention.

A man, of medium height and build, stumbled over to them. Already onlookers watched the scene, so Bethroot sat up straight, folding her hands in her lap. Thom wore no armor or carried a visible weapon, but she knew if this stranger made any trouble, Thom would be ready.

“I demand satisfaction,” the man said, his thick Orlesian accent slurred. The gentleman clearly had too much to drink this afternoon. His half-mask was tilted, giving him an almost comical look, and his clothes were crumpled with dirt smudges. Far from the expected appearance of a man about town, unless one was attempting to play the part of the village drunk.

Bethroot met Thom’s gaze, who looked just as confused as she felt. “Do I know you, ser?” She tried to place the man. He had a shock of red hair, but she simply couldn’t figure it out.

“I am Fulbert,” the man said, clearly trying to keep his balance. “You killed my brother.”

Neither piece of information helped identify Fulbert. Sadly, in her time with the Inquisition, she had killed a great many brothers. “I’m sorry for your loss, ser,” Bethroot said, wondering if she should stand on the ground. Realizing how much shorter she would be, she decided against it. Better to be almost at eye level with the man.

“That is not enough,” Fulbert said, over enunciating every word. “I challenge you. I challenge you to a duel of honor.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bethy,” Thom said, only loud enough for her to hear.

Bethroot ignored him, concentrating on Fulbert in front of her. “Where was your brother killed?”

“In the Emerald Graves. He was a Freeman of the Dales,” Fulbert said, raising his chin. “And now he is dead.”

She had no pity for the Freemen of the Dales. If they lived in peace, there would have been no reason for her to attack. But Bethroot understood loss, and she could empathize with Fulbert. “It sounds like you and your brother were close-”

“Close? Ha,” Fulbert said, waving his hands. “I _hated_ my brother.”

The obvious question was on the tip of her tongue, but Bethroot hesitated to ask. Maybe she could talk her way out of this.

“Then why challenge the lady?” Thom asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood with his legs spread apart and his chest out, seemingly taking up as much room as possible.

Or maybe not.

Fulbert poked Thom in the chest with one finger. “He was the only brother I had. Honor demands it!”

“Right, then,” Thom said with a sigh, looking back at Bethroot. “My lady, may I have the honor of fighting in your place?”

Bethroot had to stifle back a laugh. Thom sounded _bored_ , of all things. But the question seemed to catch Fulbert’s attention. The man jumped into a fighting position, his fists out. “I will fight whoever you choose, Inquisitor.”

She lowered her voice. “We don’t really need to do this, do we?” she asked.

“I know this type,” Thom said, shaking his head. “He won’t leave us alone until we’ve given him what he wants.”

“Well, then, I guess... You may?” Bethroot asked, not sure of the proper protocol here. Thom must know from his days in the army. The stories say he caused more than one duel with a jealous husband back then.

Thom bowed low, and said, “My lady.”

Then with one quick step, Thom punched Fulbert right in the face, using the weight of his entire body. Fulbert tumbled back onto the grass with a thud, legs spread and arms out.

“That was quick,” Bethroot said. She supposed she should feel bad that the man lay on the ground in the middle of Val Royeaux, but she really didn’t. She had apologized. Why did he  need more than that? "Will he be okay?"

Thom walked over to Fulbert and nodded. “He’ll only be out for a out for a bit. No permanent damage. Just a headache.”

“That’s something at least.”

“Maker’s balls, that _hurt,_ ” Thom said, rubbing his knuckles. “Been years since I punched a bastard in a mask. Forgot how much it fucking hurts.”

“My hero,” Bethroot said with a laugh, jumping down off of the wall. “Your hand going to be alright?”

Thom nodded. “I’ll soak it tonight. It’ll be fine by morning,” he said, shaking his hand out.

Bethroot looked down at Fulbert, unconscious in the street. Without thinking, she leaned over and straightened the mask on his face. Satisfied, she gestured to Thom. “Come on. Let’s not be here when he wakes up.”


End file.
